


the worst ain't so bad when it finally happens

by mlle



Category: Brick (2005)
Genre: High School, Kissing, M/M, film class as a metaphor for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlle/pseuds/mlle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s the thing that your guidance counselor won’t tell you about life, kid:</p>
<p>When the big scene ends, the credits don’t roll. There’s no fuzzed-out guitar track that brings up the black screen and the name of the sap who wrote and directed your life story.</p>
<p>There’s just you, turning away. Walking home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the worst ain't so bad when it finally happens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hungerpunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/gifts).



> lo asked me to write brendan/brain, which was harder and more rewarding than i initially thought it would be :)

Here’s the thing that your guidance counselor won’t tell you about life, kid:

When the big scene ends, the credits don’t roll. There’s no fuzzed-out guitar track that brings up the black screen and the name of the sap who wrote and directed your life story.

There’s just you, turning away. Walking home. 

Brendan would write that down if he thought it was even one-tenth of a thought no one had ever thought before.

He knows better.

No high school senior in the history of the American education system has ever had a thought worth writing down, and yet, Brendan notes, plenty of them have carved their unmissable wisdom into the back of the chair in front of him. 

KELLY LUVS BOB is cut the deepest. Brendan runs his finger over the lines, scarred like a painful old wound in the wood. At the front of the class, Ms. Turner is telling them something about chiaroscuro and Westerns of the 1940s. Film class is a joke, mostly, bricked up teens sleeping across their desks or carving their every passing emotion into the poor and unsuspecting furniture. Brendan likes Ms. Turner okay, the poor old girl, and he likes film class okay too, but after everything that went down in the past year, well. Sometimes he thinks the jerks in the movies have it easy.

Brendan’s wallowing again. He hates suckers who waste their time at it. 

Brain flags him down just after the bell, while the other cattle herd their way through the bottleneck of the door. 

“What’s moving?” he asks. 

“This whole damned world,” Brendan answers. 

Brain bobs his head in agreement, which sends his glasses sliding down his nose. He pushes them back up. “So, um, I was thinking…”

“What, in this place?” Brendan can’t help but say.

The responding laugh is more a whoosh of air. They’re standing close enough that Brendan feels it, just a little, across the side of his neck. 

“Sorry,” he says when Brain doesn’t continue. “This mouth of mine. You were saying?”

“I have  _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_  on DVD.” Brain pauses. Brendan waits. Brain clarifies. “The movie we’re supposed to watch this weekend? I know Ms. Turner said you can watch it in the library, but I figured. I mean. My house is a lot more comfortable than the media carrels, if you wanted to come over, we could watch it, popcorn, soda, the whole thing, you know, if you wanted.” 

Brendan hadn’t planned to watch the thing at all, but he could stand to play good student at least a few more times this year. Brain’s looking down at his hands. Brendan says, “Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll swing by tomorrow, 8pm? Your mom still keep the key under the blue gnome?”

“Just knock at the back door, I’ll let you in.”

Brendan nods once, spins on his heel with a linoleum squeak. 

 

—

 

Brain makes and remakes his bed three times on Saturday, sets out the DVD, puts it away again, checks the snacks. His mom stays out of the back of the house, the part near his room. She doesn’t say anything either. Brain’s not pariah level at their high school, not by any means, but he’s also not the kind of kid who’s ever had friends over. Not really, not after he and Brendan started drifting apart their sophomore year. Brendan’s social, or he was. Brain prefers the quiet. Prefers it where he can think. 

But after the events of last year, after watching Brendan grow hollow-eyed and way too weary-looking for his age, Brain started thinking maybe he should extend an offer. Open up his little world of one to another guy who looks like he could use a friend. 

The tap at the back door is sharp, business-like. Brain fumbles once with the handle, then gets it open. Brendan’s on the stoop, staring at his shoes, looking just a little sheepish. “Thanks,” he says simply as Brain lets him in. 

They get the movie turned on and get settled, leaned up against Brain’s pillows and the headboard. Brain thinks maybe Brendan will be a movie talker, the kind of guy who keeps up a running commentary the whole time, but he’s quiet. He watches Humphrey Bogart’s long and haunted face, and out of the corner of his eye, Brain watches Brendan's long and haunted face. He wants to reach a hand out, wants to see if combing his fingers through the curls at the back of Brendan’s neck would make him smile or sigh. He keeps his hands in his lap.

It feels like no time at all before the movie’s over. Brendan doesn’t move. Brain doesn’t either. The screen goes blue. 

“No credits at the end of these old ones,” Brendan says. 

Brain frowns. “No.”

They sit in silence. Brain looks over, sees Brendan biting his lip and staring at the blue TV screen. The light reflects off his glasses. It’s probably worse off Brain’s own thick ones. 

“Brendan,” he says.

“Brain,” Brendan replies. He looks over.

Brain shifts his glasses on his face. “Do you ever think about her?”

The kid plays dumb. “Who?” 

A long look. Brendan’s gonna make him say it. He’ll say it. 

“Emily Kostich.”

The wall shakes a little when Brendan’s head thunks back against it. 

“You don’t got to talk about it,” Brain tells him. “But if you wanted to. You could talk about it.”

Brendan heaves his head back up. “I don’t want to talk about it. Hell, Brain, I don’t want to think about it. I want to drift on out of that nightmare,” he gestures to the TV, “just like Curtin did.” 

Brain shrugs. “As long as you’re Curtin. As long as you’re not the other guy.” He hears his own voice go breathy at the end. 

Brendan’s looking at him like he might have heard that half a sigh, heard what it meant. He seems closer now, but they haven’t moved on the bed. At least, Brain doesn’t think they have. 

Brendan says, “I’m no Humphrey Bogart.”

Brain licks his lips. “I don’t know, Brendan, you could be.”

“Not even close enough for horseshoes or hand grenades. But if I was.”

“Yeah?”

“If I was, I’d do this.”

He leans over, and Brain feels himself leaning in. Brendan’s mouth is soft when it meets his. It’s warm. Their kiss is quiet. Even sitting down, Brendan’s just that little bit taller, so Brain’s got his head tilted back. He fidgets his hands for a moment, then brings them up to comb the curls at Brendan’s neck. 

They break apart to breathe, and Brain feels himself flush a little—an ingenue finally kissed by the big star. But no orchestra swells, and THE END doesn’t flash across the screen. 

Brendan looks at him, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Kiss me like that again,” Brain says. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_.


End file.
